7 Days and 7 Nights (12 page)

“I'll come with you.” Emmylou bent to pick up her purse and in the process released Dawg's shoulder from her bosom. “I need to powder my nose.”

They covered the distance to the ladies' room in silence, but once inside, Emmylou put a hand out to stop JoBeth. “Are you finished with Dawg, JoBeth?”

She forced herself to look Emmylou straight in the eye. She saw the sparkle there, took in the becoming flush on the blonde's cheeks—all of it put there by the man JoBeth wanted to marry. The thought of Emmylou, or any other woman, taking her place was not something she would allow herself to dwell on.

JoBeth squared her shoulders. She shook the other woman's hand off her arm and reached down deep for some attitude. “He's not exactly table scraps, Emmylou. I'm not going to wrap him up and send him home with you, if that's what you're asking.”

“You know what I mean. I'm asking if you're through with him. Is the man fair game?”

JoBeth closed her eyes for just a moment, totally aghast at what she was about to say. If she had the first idea how to stop this thing she'd started, or knew any way to step back off the ledge she'd stepped out on, she'd do it. But she was already looking down at the traffic below, and the time had come to take the final leap.

“He's not mine to hand over, Emmylou. Dawg Rollins has a mind and will of his own—neither of which I seem to understand as well as I thought I did. If you want a run at him, have at it. I believe I've already given it my best shot.”

13

This is Liv Live. It's Thursday morning, my fourth day in captivity, and I'm still kicking. Best of all, we're doing awesome in food donations.” Olivia turned up the volume on the wild-applause sound effect and stood to make a half bow to the Web camera. “Way to go, ladies.”

Taking her seat, Olivia lowered her voice and attempted to set the tone for the remainder of the show. “It's been an interesting morning so far, lots of phone calls coming in, but I think we've spent just about enough time on Matt Ransom. Let's move on, shall we? I'm here to talk about you—your thoughts, your problems. Go ahead and give me a call.”

Olivia checked the monitor for the identity of her next caller. “Hi, Michelle.”

“Hello, Dr. Moore.”

“What's on your mind?”

“Well, actually, I'm a bit concerned about Matthew Ransom.”

“But, Michelle, don't you think—”

“I think he needs one of my cards.”

Olivia sighed. “Because?”

“Because I understand that he was knocked senseless.”

“I think you mean unconscious. He was already senseless when he got here.” Diane came up with a burst of canned laughter and Olivia added the “ba-da-bing.” “He was only out for a minute or so. I'm sure he's fine.”

“Sometimes people appear to be fine, but actually are not. There can be delayed reactions and long-term effects. I'd advise that he be examined thoroughly. X rays would probably be a good idea, too.”

“And I suppose you'd be conducting that examination yourself?”

“Well, no. But we have people who do. I'm with Brant, Merriweather and Hodgson. We're personal injury attorneys.”

“Ookay . . .” Olivia dumped the call without a moment's hesitation. “Thanks so much for your concern. I'll be sure to pass it on.”

She managed to keep the “when hell freezes over” part under her breath and contented herself with typing a scathing message to Diane, who was supposed to be screening her calls. Then she picked up the next line.

“You're on the air, Amanda. What can I do for you?”

“Sorry, but I just have to ask about Matt Ransom, too, Dr. O. When I logged on Tuesday, he appeared to be lying on the floor having a near-death experience.”

“That's what happens when you put your face in front of someone's foot.” Olivia had to stifle a smile at the memory.

“Is he all right? Does he seem strange?”

“No more than usual.” Olivia went through the motions of a mimed drum riff, but didn't bother to go for the sound effects. God, she was tired of talking about Matt.

“Well, I'm a nurse, and I can tell you that any blow to the face or head is cause for concern.”

“I wouldn't worry about Matt Ransom. He's every bit as annoying as he was before—which makes me think we can rule out permanent brain damage.”

“Well, I'm on duty all day today at St. Joe's if he needs anything.”

“Gee, Amanda, are you offering aid to the enemy? There are stiff penalties for that.”

“Like eating gourmet meals and watching soap operas?”

“Well, I—”

“Or being kissed by Atlanta's Bachelor of the Year? That must have been really rough.”

“Now hold on.”

“In case you haven't noticed, Dr. O, you're not doing time with Hannibal Lecter in there. Half the nurses on my shift would pay good money to take your place.”

“And I'd give a fortune to let them.” Olivia let the call go and eyed the list of women waiting to go on the air. Most of them seemed intent on discussing Matt Ransom in some way or another. Nobody seemed to have a problem she wanted to discuss. Except herself . . . and that would require discussing the very person she didn't want to talk about.

Olivia allowed a few long moments of silence while she dumped all but the one call that listed something other than Matt as the topic. According to her computer screen, there was a woman named Rebecca waiting to discuss . . . horse racing?

Olivia peered at the monitor, trying to understand what the words Diane had typed in could possibly have to do with anything, but “jockey,” “short,” and “bet” didn't exactly clarify the caller's problem.

She had a horrible suspicion that Matt Ransom was starting to rub off on her. She'd been entirely too flip, and too quick to dump deserving people who wanted her opinion—even if it was about her current roommate and this ridiculous promotion.

“Okay, I've got Rebecca waiting on the line. If you have a problem you'd like to discuss, or food you'd like to pledge, start dialing now. We're almost out of time.”

Olivia settled back in her chair and folded her hands on the table in front of her. She was ready for something she could sink her teeth into. Some sort of meaty relationship problem that would turn the tide of conversation and get everybody's juices flowing.

“Hello, Rebecca. You're on the air.”

A twenty-something female voice came on the air. “Hi, Dr. O. How are you this morning?”

“Better now, thanks. I'm ready to get down to work. Tell me what's on your mind.”

“Well, I'm not quite sure how to ask this question.”

Olivia glanced down once more at the words Diane had used to preview Rebecca's call. “Is it about your boyfriend the jockey?”

“My boyfriend the what?”

“Isn't your boyfriend a jockey?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My producer indicated that you had a question about a jockey. Do you work with horses, too?”

There was a brief silence. Then Rebecca began to giggle. At first her laughter was restrained and ladylike, but it quickly developed into whoops of rolling-on-the-floor hilarity. When she finally quieted down enough to speak, Olivia could still hear the mirth lacing her voice.

“I don't know where the horse-racing thing came from, Dr. Moore. Honest. I don't even have a boyfriend.”

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of Olivia's stomach. Like an attorney who'd asked a witness a question without first knowing the answer, she'd made assumptions about her caller that were about to rise up and bite her right on the . . .

“My question is about underwear. You know, boxers versus briefs? I bet my friend you'd know what kind of underwear Matt Ransom wears. He's such an incredible hunk.”

Olivia closed her eyes in weary resignation. She was a mental health professional. She'd spent years earning her Ph.D., treating clients, building a name for herself. And she had been reduced to fielding questions about what Matt Ransom wore to cover his bottom.

“Go ahead and tell us, Dr. O, which is it? My friend Melody bet me he wears silk boxers. But he looks like a jockey kind of guy to me.”

Matt found Olivia sitting on the couch, clutching the remote, pretending not to watch
General Hospital
. She had a large green psychology tome on her lap and a yellow pad perched on one knee, but her gaze was fixed on the television screen.

He dropped down on the couch beside her.

Clearly caught by surprise, she moved to click off the remote, but he reached out a hand to stop her. “I doubt there's a rule in the psychologist's handbook against enjoying soap operas. You're obviously interested, so why are you hiding behind all this?”

He drew the book off her lap, placed the yellow pad on top of it, and laid both on the coffee table.

“Who will take me seriously if I spend half my day fielding calls about your choice of underwear and the other half panting over soap operas?”

“You're trapped in a tiny apartment in the middle of promotion hell with no one but me for company. No one's going to take you seriously anyway. Why not relax and enjoy yourself?”

“You always have an answer, don't you? I don't want to enjoy myself, and I have no desire to be more relaxed. I like being the way I am. It allows me to get things done, to accomplish my goals, to maintain a certain level of self-respect. You may be able to blow off the whole focus group thing, but my listeners have certain expectations.”

She'd turned to face him when she started her tirade, but by her last word he noticed her trying to check out the television from the corner of her eye. He put both hands on either side of her head and turned it so that she faced the screen. “Admit it. You're hooked and you want to know what's going to happen next.”

“I am
not
addicted to this silly program. I barely understand what's going on.”

“Right. Whatever you say.” He settled back into the cushions, plopped his feet on the cocktail table, and slid an arm across the back of the sofa. “So, what did I miss?”

“You never give up, do you?” Olivia's laugh was rueful. “All right, someone that everybody is looking for is lying in bed naked while someone whose name I missed takes care of him. His wife just found his bloodstained briefcase at another woman's grave, but I don't really understand what that means. The only thing I know for sure is that she”—Olivia pointed toward the woman leaning over the naked man's bedside—“is not what she seems.”

“They never are. That's the fun of it. It'll take you a while to sort everybody out. Luckily the plot develops very slowly. Look, see that guy? He's a fugitive.”

“A fugitive? As in, from justice?”

“Yeah.” The scene changed. “And that guy's an alcoholic, but he's trying to win custody of his son.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. It gets a little convoluted sometimes.”

A commercial came on, and Matt waited expectantly for the channel to change. Nothing happened. “Don't you want to see what else is on?”

“Hmmm?”

“You've got the remote. Aren't you going to check out the other channels? You might be able to catch a little bit of
Guiding Light
on CBS. Or we could watch the last couple innings of the Braves game. I think they're playing the Mets today.”

“It'll just be a couple of minutes until
General Hospital
's back on. Why jump all over the place?”

They sat for two and a half minutes while a Wisk commercial segued into one for Stayfree Maxi Pads. When the Meow Mix jingle began to play, he couldn't take it any longer. “Are you doing this intentionally?”

“Doing what?”

“Torturing me.”

“Torturing you? All I'm doing is sitting here, waiting.”

“Exactly. This is because of the Victoria's Secret lingerie, isn't it?”

Olivia shook her head.

“Because I ate that veal marsala in front of you?”

“Of course not.”

“The Xena, Warrior Princess, thing?”

“Don't you think you're overreacting just a little bit?”

“Is it because I bet Ben you'd go ballistic the first time I left the toilet seat up?”

“You bet money on that?”

He put his hand out. “Hand over the remote or I'll be forced to show your listeners exactly what kind of underwear I have on today.”

She stared at him as if he'd sprouted a second head.

“Look, just give me the remote and I'll show you how to handle it properly.”

“You're going to teach me how to use a remote?”

“We'll have to hope it turns out better than the boxing thing. You've never used a remote competitively, have you?”

“This is absolutely ridiculous.”

“Hand it over.”

After a slight hesitation, she complied.

“Okay, first of all, a remote is meant to be used. What's the point of all these channels if you can't see what's on at any given moment?”

“Okay.”

“Okay. So you want to hold it loosely in your dominant hand. Mine happens to be my right, but it works both ways. You just let it rest in your palm so that you can use your thumb to punch in your selections.”

“And . . . ?”

“Then you do a run-through of all your options, take a quick peek, and move on.” He began to demonstrate.

“But . . . wait. I can't tell what those programs are. How do you know whether you want to see something or not when you fly by so fast?”

“Superior male reasoning power. And intellect.”

“Oh, really?”

“Absolutely. For example . . .” He flicked to a new channel, offering his rationale as he went. “Okay. This is obviously a commerical. My first glimpse tells me it's a feminine hygiene product. Unless I haven't had a date for three years, I'm gone.”

“But what about—”

“Ditto for panty hose, toilet bowl cleaners, and Hallmark cards.”

“What do you stop for?”

Matt skidded to a halt on the Braves game. “Good question. I give a full two seconds to all sporting events.” He watched Greg Maddux strike out Mike Piazza and then flicked past several other channels before continuing. “I'll wait up to five seconds if Maddux is pitching, assuming I haven't already decided to watch the whole game.”

“What's the longest you stop?”

“Well, this is an art, not a science, so I could be a little bit off. But my longest stop is generally ten to fifteen seconds, max.”

“And those kinds of stops are reserved for . . .”

“Babes. Scantily clad women. Women I
wish
were scantily clad.”

He landed back on
General Hospital,
and they watched two teenagers share a kiss. Then he began to work his way through the possibilities one more time. “Do you get the idea?”

“Oh, I've got it all right. We're talking Attention Deficit Disorder television. Whip right by, gather general impressions, and move on to the next thing. Sort of like your strategy for dealing with the opposite sex.”

“You don't pull a whole lot of punches, do you?” He stopped on
General Hospital
long enough to watch the conclusion of the kiss and see the beginning of the closing credits before flying through the channels once more.

“No, I don't pull punches, and I can't say I'm particularly interested in your approach to television. I don't watch much, but when I do I actually like to watch what I'm watching.”